


Kindling

by Sigridhr



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Everyone Has Issues, F/F, Gender Issues, Sexuality Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigridhr/pseuds/Sigridhr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sif has a crush, has problems with labels, gets the girl, then almost loses her again, and discovers in the end things are sort of alright, even if the hardest problems in life are the ones you can’t charge at with a sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindling

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the ever-lovely, ever-helpful and always-wonderful [Talulabelle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talulabelle/pseuds/Talulabelle).

Sif had often wondered, since the events of Thor’s banishment and Loki’s betrayal, what had drawn Thor to so ordinary a companion – a mortal, no less. She had met Jane Foster a handful of times now, and found her pleasant, intelligent, pretty, and little more than that. Certainly nothing that would explain to her why Thor had so taken to her.

Fidelity and longevity had not been features of Thor’s previous relationships. Thor had always been the sort to seek pleasure from bed-partners, but companionship from friends. She’d heard about almost all of them – she’d sat through enough firelit evenings listening to her friends boast about the women they’d bedded to be well aware of Thor’s sexual proclivities. She’d tried, in the early days when she would have happily chopped her own arm off if she thought it would have proved her worthy of being considered an equal in their company, to join in with the boasting but she’d run straight into the wall that lay between her and other warriors - that for her to wield a sword was tolerated, but to take bed partners was met with denigration. She had not spoken of it again. And she’d stopped taking bed-partners.

And now they were on Midgard, of all places, and Thor was devoted to a mortal, of all things, and nothing was the way it should be. There had been power enough to send only two to Midgard, and Thor was determined to go – both because he had promised to aid in the defence of the realm, and, though he had never said it, after watching them for the past two days Sif had no doubt in her mind, to see Jane. He had asked her to come, and she had obeyed without question.

But now – now they tarried in New Mexico – a place utterly barren and miserable, as far as Sif was concerned. She would have followed Thor through all the nine realms and beyond to fight for him, without a moment’s hesitation, but despite Thor’s concerns there was no battle here. She felt tremendously out of place, and strangely useless. Idleness gnawed at her, until she felt twitchy, uncomfortable in her armour but unwilling to go without – not here on Midgard.

She heard someone coming up behind her, shoes crunching on the gravel – that jarring noise that sounded so very mortal and _ugly_ to her ears. She stared resolutely up at the stars in the hope that they would pass her by.

“Hey.”

It was Jane’s assistant – the young brunette. Sif resisted the urge to scowl.

If the girl noticed, she didn’t seem to pay it much mind. “Sorry, I know this is a bit impertinent and all, but... are you OK?”

Sif turned and looked at her in surprise. The girl smiled, lopsided, awkward and a little bit disarming. “It’s just... you don’t really look it.”

“I’m fine,” Sif said, stiffly. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” the girl said. “OK.” She smiled again, and added, “sorry to bother you, then.”

“And if I weren’t fine?” Sif asked, surprising herself and stopping the girl in her tracks as she began to walk away. 

“I’m told I’m a good listener,” she replied. “And I know it helps if you talk about it.”

“Words accomplish nothing,” said Sif. “It is deeds and deeds alone that make a difference.”

“So, are you going to do something about it?” the girl asked.

“About what?”

“Whatever it is you’re totally ‘fine’ about.” She regarded Sif openly and calmly over the top of her glasses.

Sif was uncharacteristically lost for words. The girl smiled at her, warm and open, and held out a hand. “My name’s Darcy – I’m not sure if you remember,” she said. “We were never properly introduced.”

Sif reached out and grasped her outstretched hand in her own, her grip firm.

“Listen,” said Darcy. “There’s a meteor shower on tonight. Jane invited me to watch it with her, but Thor’s going to be there and I’m really not keen on playing third wheel all night. I was going to head home and see if I can catch a bit of it. You wanna come?”

Sif wasn’t sure what a meteor shower was, but she said yes without thinking.

Darcy’s grin widened. “Cool. Shall we?”

Darcy’s house was small, messy and a bit empty, for all that clothes were strewn across every surface, she seemed to lack personal belongings. Darcy gave an apologetic wince as they stepped inside, saying, “Sorry. I’m always meaning to clean and I never get around to it.”

She crossed over to the refrigerator and kitchen area, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. “I’m almost never here anyway. Jane keeps me until all hours, usually. And it’s really more of a temporary living thing.” She poured a two glasses and handed one to Sif.

“It’s probably not as good as you’re used to, but it’s not atrocious.” 

Sif took a hesitant sip. “If this is ‘not atrocious’ I am loath to see what else your species is capable of producing,” shesaid, her nose wrinkled in disapproval.   
Darcy gave a half-shrug and said, “Fair enough. Outside?”

They dragged the blankets out and spread them on the ground - well, Darcy did. Sif watched in bemusement. Darcy tossed her a pillow and lay back, looking up at the sky.

“Has Jane given you the lecture, yet?”

“What lecture?” Sif asked, sitting carefully on the side of the blanket, her arms crossed, elbows resting on her knees, which were bent and pulled up to her chest. 

“The stars,” Darcy said, gesturing towards them in a wide, melodramatic arc. “Jane thinks everyone speaks astronomer.”

“That is not a language I am familiar with,” said Sif, gravely.

Darcy grinned. “You and me both,” she said. “But since you seem to have slipped through the cracks in everyone’s attention, let me fill you in as best I can. Which is pretty poorly, to be honest, but nevermind.”

So they sat, and Darcy pointed out all the constellations she knew and explained some of the stories behind them. She talked about the different cultures of the world, and how they each had their own constellations. How the constellations as she knew were Greek, and how some mortals believed that the alignment of the stars at their birth determined the sort of person they were (“it’s all nonsense, of course,” Darcy’d said, “but my mum believes in it. Then again, she’s a Libra and they’re gullible”) Sif had laughed at that, and Darcy had grinned brightly up at her.

They’d spotted three meteors apiece, although Sif was convinced she’d seen four. Darcy insisted it was a plane, and when Sif had asked what a plane was, Darcy had tried (and failed) to describe how it worked, and they’d spent nearly half an hour staring at the tiny screen of her phone trying to read something called “Wikipedia” (“it’s the fount of all knowledge, Sif. Well, Wikipedia and TV Tropes”) and they’d missed probably many more meteors. Sif found she didn’t mind.

There was a light breeze, and it ruffled her hair as she watched the sky, feeling oddly at peace.

“You asked me if I was ‘OK’,” she said, out of the blue. “I am... out of place, here. My place should be by Thor’s side. I had come to aid in the defence of your realm, not sit here and do nothing, like a child. I am... not accustomed to inactivity, nor to uselessness.”

“What are your options?” Darcy asked, propping herself up on her elbows to better look at Sif.

“I have none,” said Sif. “I will remain here at Thor’s side as long as he asks.”

“Why?”

Sif frowned, picking up an empty wineglass and turning it, holding it by the stem between her thumb and forefinger and rolling it so that it caught the starlight. “Thor is a friend. More than that – we have fought together, bled together. When he asks me to come, I cannot forsake him. However, I do not understand this delay. He has told me of great warriors among your people, a defence force that fought off the Chitauri, and returned Loki to Asgard. I had thought I would meet them. Instead, I am here.” She gestured at the empty town, and the desert beyond that stretched on to the horizon before them.

“Why do you think Thor’s here?” Darcy asked.

“He is in love with the mortal,” Sif said, flatly. “Three days with her, and he has bent over backwards to return. Her life will be fleeting, only merest flicker of light – she will not be accepted in Asgard. It will end badly for them both.”

Darcy frowned at that, but said nothing. Sif placed the glass carefully back down on the blanket. “I grow weary of inactivity,” she said. “As brief as it may be, I have no desire to live out her mortal life-span in this... place.”

“If you feel useless, I could use some help with the data entry and the cataloguing,” Darcy said, softly. “It’s not exciting, but it might be better than doing nothing.”

“Thank you,” Sif said, somewhat stiffly.

“But I think you should talk to Thor,” Darcy added. “There’s no reason you couldn’t head to New York now, or back to Asgard until he’s ready to go.”

Sif made a face at that. “No,” she said. “I will stay with him.” She didn’t mention that the thought of leaving Thor, of being alone on this strange, alien world full of loud noises filled her with unease. She didn’t like to admit it. There were few things that frightened Sif. But things that could be fought could be defeated – and there was no one more proficient at wielding a blade than she. It was the things she couldn’t take on that she found difficult to handle.

Darcy shrugged, and stood, gathering the blankets and the glasses. “Work starts at 8.30am tomorrow,” she said. “I’d offer to walk you back, but you’re older than dirt and can probably take down a tank single-handedly, so that seems a bit pointless.” 

Sif wasn’t sure if she should be complemented or insulted at that.

“And Sif,” said Darcy, standing in the doorway of her home, bathed in the ugly, pale porchlight. “I know a little bit of what it feels like to be something of a round peg in a square hole. If you ever need anything – ever – all you need to do is ask.” She smiled, just the corner of her lips turning up, but it softened her face and Sif was struck by how very, very _young_ she seemed to be. And yet – what had she said, a ‘round peg in a square hole?’ If mortals had a flair for anything, it was expression, and Sif found herself strangely suited to this one.

“Goodnight,” said Sif. “And, Darcy... Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Darcy replied. “I mean it.”

…

And, so, that was how Sif learned to use something called Excel, which seemed to excel at absolutely nothing as far as she was concerned.

“Excel is a bastard,” Darcy had said, leaving Sif to contemplate the possible parentage of a screen with an irritating form that kept causing the numbers she put into it to change.

“Wrong formula,” said Darcy. “Here I’ll do the Chi Square tests, you just tabulate these.”

Sif asked what sort of being could have birthed such a monstrosity.

“Microsoft,” Darcy had said solemnly, as if that made any sense at all. Darcy gave her a wry grin. “Here, let me show you how to Google.”

Sif didn’t understand how she could speak a language that enabled her to comprehend all the languages of this realm, and yet half the time Darcy spoke she didn’t understand a word.

It was dull, sometimes dreadfully so. Thor had given her a long, confused look the first time he’d seen her sitting at Darcy’s computer, diligently typing up atmospheric data onto a spreadsheet. He’d opened his mouth twice, as if to comment, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he just stood there awkwardly, and Sif ignored him until Jane came in and asked him to take a look at something.

She felt strangely ashamed to be seen doing something so... mundane. Like the desk and the chair and the dull, dull spreadsheet had stripped her of her weapons are armour, and Thor had seen what lay beneath. She tried very hard not to look at him at all.

That evening he told her how pleased he was that she was fitting in. Sif said nothing.

But the days weren’t a total waste. She found herself enjoying the time with Darcy, even if the task was mundane. The girl had a peculiar way of breathing life and vivacity into things, and she was always, always patient with Sif’s questions, and she took the time to explain things whenever she could. Sif felt a bit ridiculous, if she was honest with herself. The way her gaze would snap to Darcy the moment she walked into a room, the way she always seemed to know where Darcy was standing in relation to her, the way her skin seemed to prickle when Darcy leaned over her shoulder to type something on the computer.

Ridiculous.

But, oh! It was such a _heady_ rush - like she hadn’t felt since the first time she’d picked up a sword, until the first time she’d proven herself capable with one. She _wanted_.

It didn’t help that Darcy had started inviting her over in the evenings. (“If you’re going to become computer literate, you’re going to have to learn some pop culture. I can’t have you judging our planet on context-less lolcats alone.”) And so, she spent her evenings sitting on the end of Darcy’s bed, (“Yeah, sorry. No couch. Starving student and whatnot”), watching the ‘classics’, as Darcy referred to them.

Sif found some considerably more enjoyable than others (“I don’t understand how you can not like _Ghostbusters_ , Sif. It’s _amazing_!” – Sif didn’t point out that Darcy seemed to find a great many things ‘amazing’). But there was something undeniably comfortable about Darcy’s home, and Darcy herself - the way she’d lean over and pause the film to explain a reference that Sif wouldn’t get, the way she kept getting Sif to try different drinks each time she came over (“How can you have never had orange juice? That’s _tragic_ ” – a great many things were ‘tragic’ with Darcy, too), the way she made Sif sit and listen to her ‘iPod’ until they’d created a playlist of things Sif had enjoyed, and Darcy had named it ‘Sif’s Playlist’, and it was utterly silly and childish, but everytime she looked at it she felt _belonging_. She tried not to think about the fact that few evenings she didn’t spend in Darcy’s apartment seemed empty and cold.

But there’s nothing to be done, because Sif doesn’t take bed-partners - because she doesn’t play by the same rules as everyone else. No matter how much the accidental brush of Darcy’s skin against her own sets her alight, or how she can _feel_ every centimetre of air between them at any given moment like it’s electric - it’s not for her. Because there are rules, and she is and always will be a warrior first and a woman second.

But Darcy seemed, sometimes, to be going out of her way to make it worse.

“Could you teach me to fight?” she’d asked one day, while they were watching something that Sif found reasonably enjoyable about a female vampire slayer with a strange and slightly idiotic-sounding name.

“I suppose,” she’d replied, before she could think better of it.

Darcy had let out a high-pitched squeal and hugged her tightly, and Sif began then to regret it.

...

Darcy was an appallingly bad fighter. Her stance was poor, her arms weak, and her endurance minimal. Every time Sif gave a correction, Darcy would hold it for one, sometimes two repetitions of the exercise, before slipping almost immediately back into her bad habits.

It wouldn’t have been nearly so much of a problem - after all, Sif had trained countless warriors in her time, many of whom had been hopelessly inadequate to start with – if she weren’t captivated every time the light caught the blade in her hands, lighting up Darcy’s face. Despite her ineptitude, Darcy had a sort of elegance that said more about the quality of the blade than anything else. When she held it, she transformed – standing taller, her face pinched in concentration as she tried to replicate Sif’s movements. And every once in a while, she would have these bursts of gracefulness, like a young gazelle just learning to walk. And every time Darcy managed to turn, spinning the blade around in echo of Sif’s own movements, it completely and utterly took her breath away.

“I’m terrible at this,” Darcy said, laughing and rubbing her hand across her forehead, leaving a smudge of orange-brown dirt behind. Sif stared at it for a long moment.

“You are young,” she said. “It is only a matter of practice.”

“Oh, come on,” said Darcy. “You were never this terrible.”

This was absolutely true, but Sif didn’t say so.

Darcy let out an aggravated sigh. “It’s no good, Sif. I appreciate you trying, but I’m just really not going to get it.” She placed the sword on the ground and rubbed her palm, the skin slightly red from where new blisters were beginning to form. “I’ll just have to stick to the run like a chicken method of fighting,” she added. “You know what they say, run away and live to run away another day.”

Sif scowled. “You have spent less than two hours practice with a blade and you are prepared to give up? I would not call you a coward for running if you were unable to defend yourself, but if you give up now, after I have offered to help, I will have no qualms about doing so.”

Darcy stared at her, a little wide-eyed, cradling her in the palm of the other, her thumb stilled where it had been rubbing circles on her skin. “Uh... _ow_ ,” she said. “Holy pep-talk, Batman.”

“I have no interest in this Man of Bats,” said Sif. “I wish to know if you are a coward, or no.”

Darcy silently mouthed the words ‘man of bats’, still looking wide-eyed. Sif glared pointedly at her. “Right,” said Darcy, picking up the sword and holding it in her best approximation of an appropriate grip. “I am _not_ a coward.”

“I am tremendously pleased to hear it,” said Sif, dryly. “You are not a coward, but your stance is still abominable.” She stepped in front of Darcy, and sank effortless into a fighting stance. “See,” she said, “your weight must be light on your feet, so that you can move, but steady enough that you will not fall over.”

Darcy copied her, with such a look of intense concentration on her face, her tongue poking out from between her teeth, that Sif had to bite down on the urge to laugh. She reminded Sif of the pet kitten her mother had given her when she was young, which had stumbled across one of the hunting dogs in the garden and, less than a quarter of its size, attacked it with its tiny claws and teeth.

Sif had been forced to rescue it.

“You’re dropping your elbow,” said Sif.

Darcy frowned down at it, as she tried to keep it up. “Like this?”

“No,” said Sif. “It should follow the natural line of your shoulder – you’re twisting it too far when you hold it like that. Here.” She walked around behind Darcy, using her foot to widen Darcy’s stance a bit before reaching around to adjust her grip. Sif’s fingers closed gently over Darcy’s own, taking some of the weight of the sword off her arm.

“Your grip is wrong,” said Sif, in a low voice. “Keep your thumb here,” said Sif, adjusting Darcy’s hold and giving her fingers a gentle squeeze as if to hold them in place.

Then, slowly and gently, she brushed her fingers along the underside of Darcy’s forearm until she was cupping her elbow. WIth a gentle, but firm grip, she turned Darcy’s arm. “See,” she said, “it is much more comfortable to work _with_ your body, than against it.”

Darcy nodded, and her hair brushed Sif’s cheek. Sif could smell sweat, and underneath that something artificial, like fake lilac, and something inherently _Darcy_. She swallowed, torn between the desire to pull herself away and the urge to press herself even closer.

“What now?” said Darcy, and Sif felt the vibrations of her voice ripple like aftershocks across her own skin.

“Light on your feet,” she said, keeping her voice as level as she could. “Lunge.”

The moved forward in unison, graceful under Sif’s guiding hand. Sif’s leg aligned alongside Darcy’s, their bodies stacked, like Sif was her shadow, like they had become one single, joined being.

“Back,” said Sif, as they returned to the first stance. “Block.”

The blade rose, glinting dangerously in the sunlight. Darcy looked up at it, her temple brushing Sif’s cheek. “Focus,” Sif said, softly and almost right into her ear.

“Sorry,” Darcy muttered, looking forwards again.

“Block,” said Sif, and their arms crossed the line of their body, blocking the right-hand side. “And now,” said Sif, placing her other arm on Darcy’s waist, “we turn.” They spun, more like a dance than a sparring match, turning the full way around and ending up where they began.

“Whoa,” said Darcy softly.

Sif could feel her own heart pounding hard enough that Darcy must’ve felt it too. Every inch of her skin, pressed up against Darcy’s back, felt electric. She could see the rise and fall of Darcy’s breast, feel her pulse beneath her fingers, _smell_ her like she was drowning in it.

Something in her snapped, as centuries worth of self-control unravelled in an instant.

In a single, fluid motion, she disarmed Darcy, tossing the sword aside, and spun her around, holding one wrist in a firm grip as she grabbed the back of Darcy’s head and pulled her in for a kiss.

Darcy made a faint noise of surprise, muffled against her lips as Sif held her close. And for one moment – brief and seemingly infinite, it was perfect. The heat was almost unbearable, and she was all but drowning in the taste of Darcy’s mouth, the feel of her hair slipping between her fingers.

And then Darcy’s hands were on her shoulders, pushing her back, and they parted, both panting and startled. Darcy was staring at her, dumbstruck and somewhat trepidatious. Then, in a single horrible instant, everything shattered. Sif saw her face crumple as she muttered “sorry” and turned and ran.

Sif watched her go.

…

She hadn’t realised just how many hours a day she’d been spending in Darcy’s company until she stopped. She stopped going into the lab, she stopped spending evenings on Darcy’s bed, and in many ways she stopped doing anything at all, although that was more due to her lack of options than anything else.

So, she trained. Over and over again – block, parry, thrust. A dance without a partner. And at night she looked at herself in the mirror and stared at the curves that no amount of training could ever erase, and felt like she lost something of herself every time she caught sight of her own body. Like each glimpse of her own shape caught her by surprise – it was easy to forget when she moved, wielding a blade like an extension of her own arm, faster, _better_ than any warrior, any _man_ in Asgard, that she was something else. That always it would be the Warriors _Three_ , and _Lady_ Sif.

When Thor came by, she sparred with him until he stopped trying to ask her what was wrong. She had answered that question before, when Darcy had asked. She would not answer it again.

…

It was Sif’s fourteenth day of studiously avoiding the lab during daylight hours when Darcy turned up at her door.

“Hey,” she said, without preamble, and slightly rushed like she was desperate to get it out. “Can I come in?”

Wordlessly, Sif stepped aside and let her in.

“So, I owe you an apology,” said Darcy, in that same nervous tone.

Sif blinked. “No,” she said. “It is I who must apologise. My behaviour has been –”

“Let me finish,” cut in Darcy. “Because I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and if I don’t get it out now I’m not sure I ever will, and I think this might possibly be one of the most important conversations I’ve ever had, so I’d rather not miss it, if that’s all the same to you.”

Sif blinked again, becoming increasingly convinced that she was in no way, shape or form in control of the situation. She nodded for her to continue.

Darcy took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. “Okay,” she said, “here’s the thing. I’m sorry for running away from you like that. It was childish, and shameful, and you deserved better.”

“But –”

“I said let me finish.” Darcy crossed her arms over her chest, almost hugging herself. “I freaked out a bit, and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to come ‘round and talk about it. The thing is...” She shrugged, looking nervously at the wall somewhere over Sif’s shoulder. “The thing is I’ve never really thought about girls before. I never thought I had a problem with it, but then suddenly you were kissing me and I was liking it, and I guess... I guess I’ve always seen myself as straight and to find out that I’m not was... unexpected.” Darcy swallowed, and met Sif’s gaze. “Because I’m not. I’m really, really not.”

Sif’s brain was screaming as it processed this information.

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” Darcy added. “And I guess I freaked out a little bit. I don’t think I’ve ever had a crush on a girl before.”

“I’m not a girl,” Sif blurted out, suddenly. “I am Sif.”

Darcy let out a surprised laugh. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, you are.”

For one long, awkward moment they stared at each other. Darcy’s arms will still wrapped tightly around herself, and she rocked nervously back-and-forth on her feet. Sif found herself unexpectedly at a loss – the next step seemed obvious, but she found herself curiously _afraid_.

Sif usually killed things she was afraid of. This was one situation where her normal approach didn’t seem very applicable.

In the end it was Darcy who bridged the gap between them, stepping close enough that Sif could see the nervousness in her eyes, and feel the air between the magnetise, and she could feel the shaking of Darcy’s hands as they reached out to rest gently on her shoulders.

And there was a moment, a deep breath before the plunge, where they both looked at each other, and all the nameless things they were afraid of seemed to pass between them – and Sif was struck by the sudden sense that they were _together_. That her fears were not her own; that she was not alone. She was suddenly, overwhelmingly and absurdly grateful.

And the Darcy closed the gap, pressing her lips to Sif, and she just grabbed hold and held on. She could feel Darcy’s breasts pressed up against her own, and Darcy’s fingers in her hair, and oh it was _wonderful_. She ran her hands over every inch of her she could reach, slipping them under Darcy’s top to brush the soft skin of her hips, tangling them in her hair.

And this time, _this time_ it was perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> The dig at astrology comes from a quote by Sir Arthur C Clarke. It reads: "I don't believe in astrology; I'm a Sagittarius and we're skeptical."


End file.
